


Darkness and Chaos

by oonaseckar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Capitalism, F/M, Gen, Ice Cream, Ice Cream Parlors, Karl Marx - Freeform, M/M, Mother Jones, Political Theory, Politics, Socialism, Work, marxism, retail job, summer job, working
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22253626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Allison Argent - with a summer job before college.  Yeah, her Dad is loaded.  But she's been a bad, bad girl.  Her allowance has been cut off.Fuck her life.  Her friends aren't making things much better, either.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. working men of all countries unite!

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from Don Karong - 'without ice cream, life would be darkness and chaos'.
> 
> Chapter title from Karl Marx.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A world in which Allison never died.

It's not fair. _So_ _much_ not fair, because she shouldn't be here, in an ice-cream parlor on a Saturday night, with the BHHS Commencement ceremony behind her, and a long, hot, post-high-school and pre-college summer before her. _Behind the counter._

No, because the theory is, Allison Argent has worked her _butt_ off, both in school and out of school, and she should get to reap the rewards of that, with a summer off, for Chrissakes! One summer off! It isn't as if she hasn't been working summer jobs for the last three years, and that's in addition to archery practice, homework, summer school, camp, gymnastics practice and, oh, yeah, _busting werewolf ass,_ and assorted other googly monstrous nasties, as and when necessary. She has earned a _summer off_ , before college.

The Argents are loaded! It isn't as if her Dad can't afford to carry her and load her up with allowance for the summer. And a few nice gifts too, considering she practically aced all her classes. Okay, maybe she wasn't valedictorian. Or even salutatorian. But hell, in a cohort that includes Lydia Martin and Stiles Stilinski, it isn't as if she was ever in with a shot, as far as _that_ goes. She passed _calculus_ , Chrissake. Allison feels she deserves a little credit.

Sulkily, Allison starts scooping out the past-their-due-date bins, hot-disinfecting the counter-top, setting out the new tubs. Damn, _not fair_. You miss _one_ specially-released gremlin on a practice shoot-cum-social do, she thinks. And just because her Dad has some hoity-toity hunter friends around, and said gremlin gets loose, gets frisky and bites his hunter buddy on his humoungous old ass...

So she'd been three-way skyping with Scott and Isaac when she should have been waiting for the shout and the release of the gremlins, so _what_. So the high and girly shriek of Mr Whassit-Hunter-guy when he'd run shrieking around their quiet little section of the Preserve, with a gremlin clamped on his ass, had made her jump about a mile in the air and exert some unwise pressure on her hunting bow, shooting his snooty lady-wife in the foot and _hardly doing any damage at all._ The woman's fancy rhinoceros-skin boots –- her completely _illegal_ and _proscribed_ and _unethical_ imported rhinoceros-skin boots, that she should have her hide prosecuted for even wearing in the _first_ place –- had totally protected her feet. Mostly.

Okay, so Mrs Hoity-Toity is now missing _one little toe._ She's from a hunter family, for Chrissake. Although from the hullabaloo she'd made, you'd surely never know it.

God _damn_. And now Allison is in the dog-house –- ho, ho –- with Mom and Dad both. She's completely out of allowance for the entire summer, if not actually grounded she's certainly extremely circumscribed in her activities, and –- at Chris' insistence –- she's unwillingly, gainfully employed, on a part-time basis.

At the ice-cream parlor, opposite Jungle. The ice-cream parlor that opens late nights, including Saturday nights, so that she can watch all of the happy revelers as they fall into and out of the doors all night long. Half of them seeming to be members of her own graduation class, a quarter of whom are making it their mission, over the summer, to cheer her up, about grounding, about a pox placed on her social life, about having to work in an _ice-cream parlor,_ on weekend nights over the summer.

 _All_ of them. They all seem to stagger in at some point, every Friday and Saturday night, to commiserate with her and lean on the counter. To demand ice-cream, in various flavors, none of them advisable for stomachs that have been repetitively hit with various shots for the previous couple of hours. And to make fun of her work clothes.


	2. cease your work, look around you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and drunk!Stiles, visiting Allison while she's working behind the counter at the ice cream parlor. Just what any girl needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Tolstoy.

Stiles is the first one in tonight, and it's his opening conversational gambit, his greeting and expression of his drunken joy in seeing his buddy. “Oh man! Allison! Looking good! Looking –- ah –- _pink_! Very pink! It's a good –- it's a good –- well, to be perfectly honest, Argent Jr., it's a very _Barbie_ look, but you are pulling it off, you are distinctly –- urp–-“

He's holding onto the door-frame of the store to hold himself up, and grinning over at her from his side of the counter, up through his stupidly long eyelashes. He's also holding the _door_ open, which isn't such a big issue because it's a lovely warm night. But then again, it _is_ a bit of an issue, because it opens the store up to the gaze of any old passerby. And the next passerby is _Derek Hale_.

Which works out great for Stiles, because at this point the door-frame is seeming like it's not going to be quite enough to keep him steady and upright, and yes, he totters a bit. It's a toss-up as to whether he's the one who leans into Derek, as the leather-jacketed one pauses in the doorway to examine them both, or whether Derek spots his micro-movement, the imminent danger of him hitting the pavement like a felled tree and fracturing his woozy boozily-sloshing skull.

Either way, Derek catches him neatly as he goes, steadies him and straightens him. And keeps him in place, an arm caught casually around Stiles' shoulders. Who looks around, seeming more than a bit startled and not quite with it, like he hasn't at all kept up with this update on events. He flails a bit, because he's Stiles, and flailing is what he does. “Ah, aaaah, right, that's Derek! This is Derek!” And he indicates Derek, to Allison, with a thumb jabbing backwards, and a broad pleased grin.

Allison nods solemnly, at Stiles, and then at Derek. And Derek smirks, barely detectably, as he nods back. “You caught me, man?” Stiles enquires, and yeah, he's finally catching on. Derek just looks at him impassively, but Stiles' beaming grin is irrepressible. “Yeah, you did! You caught me! Werewolf reflexes for the win!” He raises a triumphant fist into the air, and then gets distracted, and begins to pat Derek's bicep. And then, frankly, to _pet_ _it_.

Allison and Derek both gaze at him, until he comes to himself and abruptly removes his fingers from fondling Derek's upper arms, and sticks a finger in his mouth instead, chewing a nail with pretty lips. And he talks right through the chewing, because that's Stiles. “Hey, Derek, look, it's Allison!” And he points, in case Derek has missed the point, and is visually impaired, and might conceivably not be able to spot a girl dressed all in hot pink, with a hairnet, and a little pillbox-y pink waitress cap pinned on top of her head.

Nobody can miss a sight like that. _No-one._

“She's looking pink, right?” Stiles observes, not for the first time, and it's not getting any better to hear it for a second time. “Pretty in pink! _Really_ pink! Right, Derek?” He lolls his head back, to rest on Derek's shoulder, and Derek frowns down at him.

“I think it's time we got you out of here,” he observes. “Before you say anything tactless. Or more tactless than usual.”

And that has Stiles swimming up out of his inebriated state pretty damn quick: there's a sudden level of alertness on his face that's fighting with a wild-eyed laugh. “Hey, hey! Woah there, furry-face! Allison, can you believe this, _Derek_ _Hale_ is giving me lessons on social acuteness and prop-pro... pro...” And yeah, he's fuddled again.


	3. I'm not a humanitarian, I'm a hell-raiser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison needs a little comfort and validation. Who better than Scott and Isaac?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Mother Jones.

And Derek swings her an apologetic look, as he drags a protesting Stiles off. To Jeep or Camaro, she does not care a bit, not as long as they get themselves gone, the way she's feeling. “Sorry,” he says, pausing again a moment. Then he seems to struggle a moment further, looking for more explanation. The explanation involves looking Allison up and down –- as far as the height of the counter between them allows –- and taking in her pink overall –- pink pinny –- pink apron –- jarringly blue hairnet –- and little pink hat, with its white frill. He shrugs, and it's eloquent. It's like there are _no words._

Then he's out of there, Stiles drooping in his tight one-armed embrace –- or detention-style clamp –- and stumbling along as they pass the ice-cream parlor windows.

And, fuck it, leaving Allison more crestfallen, more dispirited, and feeling closer to _flat-out ugly_ than she's ever been before in her life. She's a pretty girl, for God's sake, though! There's all kinds of evidence, guys are always trying to date her, Jackson never stops coming on to her, she's...

She sags against the counter, and serves herself a scoop of ice-cream. And she's licking the spoon, very sadly, when Scott walks in, and double-takes when he sees her. He stops uncertainly in the middle of the floor, strip lighting illuminating his face harshly, and his face a little bit worried, maybe. Doesn't Scott usually look a little bit worried, though?

“Allison?” he asks. “You okay?”

Well, Allison guesses, evidently not. Not if it's that clear, on first glance, that she's maybe a little bit upset. Just a little bit.

“Oh,” she sighs, “it's nothing.” But maybe she's pouting a little bit. “I'm just a little bit sad.”

That's enough for Scott, who's over the counter –- wolf muscle, wolf reflexes! -- and cuddling her in a hot second. They may be the onnest/offest couple of all time –- and semi-permanently on a break –- but there is never going to be a time when Scott isn't there for Allison. Not in this world or in the next, not a cat in hell's chance, no way nohow no sirree buddy-boy.

And she yearns and nuzzles into him, as he pets at her hair and crowds her up against the counter, soothing and lovey-dovey. “Aw, Allisons should never be _sad_ , for they are made to be cute and happy,” he croons, trying to push her face up into a smile with his fingers. “What's the matter, sweetheart?”

Allison sighs. “Look at me!” she says dramatically, and pushes him away just enough to indicate her overall, her hat, her –- generalized pinkness, really. Her deeply, deeply unhot outfit. “Derek and Stiles were just in here,” she bursts out, still wounded. “And Stiles laughed at my clothes. And so did Derek!”

That's what really wounds, really scars. Stiles' opinion she can brush off –- it's dorky nerdy _Stiles_ , for heaven's sake, the dork to end all dorks, the nerd to rule all other nerds. But Derek Hale, dissing her appearance! However apologetically!

“What meanies,” Scott says stoutly, and it's so _Scott_ that she has to laugh, although her eyes may be a little bit wet. “Although you have to take into account that Stiles was the worse for several Slippery Nipples, last time I spotted him in Jungle, so you've gotta make some allowances. But it's still ridiculous. You are the hottest girl in Beacon Hills, no question. Is there any question about that, Isaac?” He directs the question to, yes, Isaac, who has just drifted into the shop from over the way, long and lean and cool and looking curious.


	4. astonishment rather than torpor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison's saaaaad: and can Scott and Isaac fix it? Can they heck as like. About as much as Bob the Builder, they can fix emotional fragility and wounded self-esteem.
> 
> Lydia, on the other hand...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Studs Terkel.

"There's never been the slightest doubt in my mind,” Isaac assures him. “What's up? Allison, are you okay?” Okay? Well, perhaps she's sniveling, just a little bit, at this point. It's just nice to have the validation, all right?

“She's thinking that she's not _attractive_ in this outfit,” Scott explains, petting her hair tenderly. “Stiles and Derek have been dumbasses.”

“What, again?” Isaac asks. But he doesn't delay: leaps over the counter via the same route that Scott took, and now Allison is completely squished in a sandwich, in which the slices of bread are two very handsome young men. Both of whom she's dated. Telling her how terrific she is, how shiny her hair, how lustrous her eyes, how luscious her lips...

“And your _ass_ , baby!” Isaac is assuring her earnestly. “It should be preserved for posterity for the benefit of future generations!”

And Allison's giggling –- but not really completely convinced, or comforted –- but _somebody else_ isn't impressed. A voice like the crack of a whip snarls out behind them. “What, and you think that _that's_ going to do the job here? Boys! Useless!”

All three of the cute little trio behind the counter jump as one, and swivel around to check out who's addressing them. Not that they don't know, because everyone who's ever attended Beacon Hills High School would know, recognize and fear that autocratic, demanding, frankly pissy little ice-queen voice. It's Lydia Martin, recent graduate of BHSS –- but still the queen of all she surveys.

And she stalks, now, towards the counter, as if she's a lioness hunting prey. She looks from one to another between Scott and Isaac, as if she can't quite decide which one of them she's going to eat first. Tasty snacks, both these boys.

“Really?” she demands, as she hits the front of the counter and leans up against it. “That's the best you can do? Tell her she's pretty, and pat her hair?”

it's not surprising, really, that Scott would be transfixed by the prospect of Lydia Martin in the middle of a hissy fit. Isaac usually has a bit more fire and feistiness in him –- considering what he's been up against, half his life –- but Lydia silences and shame-faces even _him_. Even though he doesn't know exactly why.

Anyway the boys are extraneous, at this point, and it's immediately evident. Allison's eyes are fixed on Lydia: Lydia's, on Allison, as she sashays around the counter, flipping up the entry-section and making her way into the staff-only area. (The conventional way. She's a lady, and not a wolf, and a banshee uses her _voice_ to make an impression. Not gymnastics.)

“Allison. Sweetheart,” she croons, as she leans into her buddy where Allison is still standing at the counter, pink-overalled, hair extinguished, ready to give satisfaction and service. Lydia doesn't push the boys away: Allison is trapped, now, Scott and Isaac on either side, and Lydia behind her, soft white arms encircling her waist. Lydia's in some stripy scanty slip of silk, black and maroon, that sets off the strawberry waterfall over her shoulders so well. More of her boobs on show than usual, too, classy lady that she is. But it's not her own beauty she's focused on.

“Did they not make you feel pretty, darling?” she croons in Allison's ear. “ _Animals_.” And her immaculately manicured hands go to Allison's shoulders, under the virulent glare of the strip-lights, under the eyes of Scott and Isaac who seem to glance and flinch at each other apprehensively. Well they _might_ be apprehensive. Pretty delicate hands slide down the front of Allison's unflattering overall, ping at press-studs and rip at velcro.


	5. unhampered participation in a meaningful setting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ya know, when _Lydia_ says strip, ya better strip. Goddammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Ivan Illich.

“Lydia?” Allison asks, uncertainly. But her eyes are fixed straight ahead, just the same, fixed right on the door. She's getting paid, and she has a job to do. No matter what happens. Especially considering this is an allowance-free summer.

“Relax, honey,” Lydia hums in her ear. The overall comes off smooth and easy. Lydia has grace and finesse – no-one has more. Scott squeaks a bit, maybe, and Isaac stifles an anxious giggle.

“Lyds, I have to–-“. Allison grabs at her hairnet, her little pink cap, as they both go flying, and Lydia's hand closes over hers. With their combined efforts, they fix it back on her smooth dark waves, bobby-pins jabbing into delicate pink scalp with ruthless, brutal efficiency.

Then her tee-shirt comes off, Allison's does –- the white one with the doughnuts and the ice-cream soda on it, the logo of this haven of a sugar-laden promise of _diabetes mellitus_ \- and the little cap goes flying again.

(Has it been mentioned that this emporium of sugar is called ' _Creamy Mounds'_? No? It is. It's not the least thing that Allison has against it.)

Scott dives for it this time, and gravity isn't quicker than an alpha wolf. He sets it back on Allison's head tenderly. “Thank you, Scott,” Lydia says severely, much as if assistance amounts to interference, and takes it out of his hand with schoolmarm severity. (Lydia as a schoolmarm. Lydia as a schoolmistress. Lydia as _Mistress of Pain._ Down, boy.) She fixes it back, pins jabbing perhaps a shade more sharply than really need be, and Allison winces. Stood there before the counter, in her lacy lilac bra and gray work slacks, pink cap fixed like a bleeding heart fixed to a target with a crossbow bolt, she winces.

“Lydia?” she says, uncertain. But it's not as if she's arguing. Who argues, with Lydia? Not if they value their ovaries. (Everyone has ovaries, around Lydia. Men spontaneously sprout a pair.)

“Don't worry, darling,” Lydia murmurs, and kisses a naked shoulder, goose-pimpled just enough for decoration. “We're going to make you feel pretty, all right.” She leaves a lip-glossed imprint there, a love-mark from one girl to another. “Isaac,” she says, tone suddenly snapping from fond to fierce, “why don't you make yourself helpful?”


	6. Chapter 6

And from being a little glazed over, Isaac snaps to attention. But it doesn't help, because he hasn't a clue what she wants of him. Being Lydia, she doesn't help him out too much – just jerks her head at the display behind the glass counter. And when he stares back at her helplessly, and shrugs, and Scott snickers behind her, and Allison moans a little bit – Lydia throws her purse at him in aggravation.

“Ice-cream, Isaac? What do we serve here? _Ice-cream!_ ”

Isaaac beams, because a little direction is a wonderful thing. And he grabs the scoop, and starts doling two or three scoops into a dish. But he's halted pretty damn quick. “Not in a _dish_ , dummy!”

Look at Lydia's face. _Why is she perpetually surrounded by fools?_ Isaac halts, stands with dessert and dish in trembling hands, and Lydia's hands go back to Allison's bare shoulders. Then, more particularly, to her bra-straps, and those come down like a castle wall. Pretty titties falling out, Allison stands still and tense, and her eyes don't budge from the entrance of the store. It's bright in here, bright like sunlight, and out on the street it's dusky with intermittent streetlights and the haze from the clubs over the road. People falling out of there, arguing in the street, milling around, trying to start fights, trying to pick each other up, trying to walk after too good a time.

“You okay, honey?” Lydia breathes, right into the crook of Allison's neck. The silk of her cheong-sam rustles against the silk of the skin of Allison's back.


	7. Chapter 7

Allison smiles. Nude as a marble statue, ten times as pretty, gloriously authoritative and erect and proud as the figurehead at the prow of a ship. She's pretty now, all right, she's Diana minus the bow. And the boys lean on the counter, either side, and gaze at her wistfully. Scott sighs. Words aren't usually beyond him, on the subject of Allison. But he's mute now, all right.

“Gimme,” Lydia orders, holding out her hand for the dish, and Isaac gives. And reaching around, she puts careful, highly articulated beige-tipped fingers to each of Allison's nipples. Checks their status: reddened, silk-skinned.


End file.
